Well Bottom Blues

I miss the crisp leaves who've stolen
Joseph’s coat, my now grown kids
toddling through an acre of pumpkins
on the vine, wandering the corn maze
in the dark, the scary hayride, hot 
chocolate after around the fire. 

I don't miss Minnesota’s mosquitoes
with their alien proboscis ride alongs
raised welts on my bayou-tested skin.
Summer waited for the Fourth while
June poured forth the rain that birthed
those swarming winged irritants.

I miss snowshoeing on a sunny, windless
ten degree day, acting out my fascination
from childhood with tales of daring Artic
expeditions read in Louisiana's swelter. I
loved my 1910 Craftsman house with
sun-snatching hand poured glass windows 

but not the original insulation fallen
to the bottom of the walls, the oil tank
with the leaky float if filled to the top
the furnace that would peel the paint
of those hollow walls but kept us
warm through blizzard winters.

Every place has its tokens of memory.
Better to remember what was loved
rather than what was survived. 
I've weathered hurricanes, tornados
and the derecho hat tore apart that
northern town howling like a Gulf storm.

My ex has the picture albums, but memory
is faithful to what touches or cuts
deep. I'll keep the fall leaves and
lazy sailboat summers on the lakes.
What's cut heals. Scars vanish. Keep
what warmed through cold storms.